Category Archives: Writing

I had a dream…

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…and often my dreams are very realistic, vivid and occasionally, pretty funny. Some could be made into movies or at least short you-tube videos! Unlike many people, my dreams are often complete and contain details. Like everyone, they have some basis in reality. So I may be visiting the Falls, but have my cat with me..I guess because while I’m dreaming, she is lying at the end of the bed purring and that gets incorporated in somehow…

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The Nyamandhlovu road starts off as a double lane, in very good condition. There are no potholes and early in the morning with alot on my mind, its easy to day-dream, easy for the foot to settle on the accelerator. There are no pesky speed traps, not much traffic other than the tiny kids who run to school in the very cold, early morning. They run along barefoot, carrying their shoes, to preserve them! Read the rest of this entry

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Pick on someone your own size…

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The soil is a grey colour in Kezi, bleached hard by the hot sun. Occasional clumps of grass push up between large grains of sand. Small holes litter an open patch. Animal ambushes.
A Matabele ant, traveling fast through the bush as if on a trajectory, marches along. Matabele ants are huge. They have hard shiny skins, and giant pincers at the front. They are a glossy black. They sting, but only if you annoy them, or stand on them. At some times of the year, they group together and march along in black rivers, thousands of them. Through the bush, over roads. If a car drives over them, they let off a distinctive smell, which unless it has been experienced cannot be described. They sometimes let off that smell even when they are marching through the bush, undisturbed.
At other times of the year, they are solitary, as today. Picking its way along, it climbs over the occasional clump of grass, or heads for the few open patches in between, never deviating from its predetermined route.
A spider, alerted by minuscule vibrations on the surface of the soil rushes out of a little hole in the middle of the open patch. It dashes over to the ant, appears to hug the shiny back end. Falls off. Retreats. The spider’s tiny front pincers cannot penetrate the shiny armour and the ant continues without even a hitch in its step. Not with the smallest deviation of its course does it indicate it has noticed anything at all, untoward.
Utterly outclassed, the spider retires to its hole, to await something more in its league. Something softer, its poison shafts can impale.

Spider

 

 

~oo~00~oo~

Please have a look at my books…

 

Click here, to download A Silken Thread

A Silken Thread

Click here to download A Pale

A Pale

Please post comments on the books here on my blog, or at Amazon.

You can email me at:

forfrankiekay@gmail.com

I love fan mail and discussing my books via email, so please don’t hesitate to contact me.

Silk Threads is available on Smashwords…if you are into BDSM and more explicit scenes, please download a copy of Silk Threads  here:

Silk Threads

And a copy of Jack and Jill here

Jack and Jill a short story

Please leave a comment on Smashwords

 

off a ranch in Matabeleland…

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They took the boy off the farm, from under the endless African skies and sent him to Europe, to fight for the land his father had left, more than twenty years before. They swapped the dry dusty vastness for the trenches, the mud, stench. Bombs and gas. The boy watched in horror as friends were blown to smithereens, or died screaming, hopelessly pushing entrails into the tattered skin that in the morning had been a young man’s muscular stomach. Read the rest of this entry

Books and Covers…

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The tiny blue sports car nudged into the parking slot at the very end of the line of cars. Hardly a parking, it was more of an awkward little space left between the pavement and a tree. The occupant reached over, scooping her leather hold all off the passenger seat. She didn’t need anything bigger today; no books required this afternoon. Good show I have this little car, not the Fortuner dad wanted me to have, she thought. No nipping into small first year parking slots with that great boat, at this time of the afternoon. Read the rest of this entry

Charity…

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Charity…

This, ladies and gents, is a story of human kindness, of romance and tragedy. It’s a story of love in a fictional place somewhere in post independent Zimbabwe. Let’s say it all happened in a village called Providence…a little place, fifty or so kilometers from Bulawayo. Read the rest of this entry